


Between the Click of the Light and the Start of the Dream

by Catclaw



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, First Time, M/M, Or Is It?, POV Eames (Inception), POV Third Person, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 00:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catclaw/pseuds/Catclaw
Summary: There’s a scream trapped inside him.  A nervous, moody restlessness that he doesn’t know what put there.  Or who…





	Between the Click of the Light and the Start of the Dream

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been a little while since I've written and really, I should be focussing on my Kylux WIP, but here we are...
> 
> Title taken from No Cars Go by Arcade Fire.

There’s a scream trapped inside him. A nervous, moody restlessness that he doesn’t know what put there. Or who…

He drums his fingers arrhythmically on the ‘wooden’ desk in front of him as he waits impatiently for the screen to load.

He can’t let the scream out here. No far too melodramatic and, he thinks, Arthur might actually shoot him if he does.

The screen loads for the briefest of seconds before immediately going blank. He contemplates throwing the machine out of the window, but instead curses under his breath and decides it’s definitely time for a fag.

He pushes back from his desk and casts a furtive glance around him before he stands. No point drawing attention to himself. He checks his pocket for the full packet of cigarettes (he’s made _that_ mistake before) and throws his coat over his arm just in case.

He makes his way outside, because, although, fuck the Government and their ‘but think of the children’ laws, he doesn’t fancy pissing off a bunch of armed (technically) criminals. Plus from the way Arthur’s been snappy since the start of this job, well, more than usual and the uncharacteristic gum chewing when he thinks that no one is looking, he figures that the Point Man has quit lately and he’s not that much of an arsehole that he’s willing to flaunt his habit in front of someone that’s trying to better their health.

It’s a typically cold early summer’s day in London. The threat of smog hangs heavy in the air and Eames crosses the road, walking nonchalantly away from the derelict office building that they’re using as he sparks up. He stands, keeping a wary eye on the door and sparse human traffic as he puffs moodily on his cigarette.

It’s warmer out here than it is inside, he thinks grumpily, his thoughts flashing on the single (pathetic) heater that’s sitting on the desk next to him (raised up off of the ground where it was doing a fat lot of good…). There’d been a few times over the last few days where he’d almost either screamed (not that he’d ever admit it, even under torture) or almost involuntarily thumped the young, cocky and cheeky (far too much like Eames himself when he was younger, but, again, he wouldn’t ever admit that) Extractor who would randomly (silently!) appear at this elbow with the sole purpose of soaking up some of the heat. At one point, even Arthur had looked up in the middle of saying something to him and seen the Extractor standing there and had broken off in mid-sentence to remark how creepy it was.

He takes a final drag and throws the remains to the floor, stubbing it out viciously with the toe of his boot. Time to go back in. He sighs. He knows, at the back of his mind, like an itch, impossible to scratch, that something is going to happen. Something is going to irreparably change something that even he won’t be able to fix, even if he wanted to.

He walks back towards the door of the building, but at the last second, his feet change direction, taking him towards the crappy, overpriced (because of course it is – it’s London) corner shop. He buys a bottle of Coke and a not-quite-miniature bottle of rum (to keep him warm in that shit-hole, he reasons).

Outside again, he tips enough of the Coke down the drain, to disguise the rum and tops it up with the other bottle he just bought. He performs a quick, mock salute to the Good Captain and hides the remainder of the Morgan Spiced within the folds of his coat, but not before taking a healthy pull from the bottle.

The day drags on, eased somewhat by the ‘Coke’ he drinks. At one point Arthur catches his eye and he can tell by the slight, disapproving, downturn of his mouth that Arthur knows. There’s some part (most) of him that feels guilty, but it’s not like he has to answer to him, beyond the bounds of professionalism, but this is only a small drink to stave off the cold (and murdering the Extractor) so that doesn’t cross the invisible line in the sand as far as he’s concerned.

He replenishes his supply and tops the bottles up steadily throughout the day. Long, mind (and arse) numbing hours pass before he decides that he’s had enough and wants to sneak out home. He knows he’s not particularly stealthy about it and no doubt he’s pissed people off (Arthur included, but he’s not sure why that bothers him more than anyone else being annoyed with him) but, fuck it, he’s _home_. It doesn’t happen often, so why should he deny himself the comfort of a place that’s his own when he spends more time in nameless, faceless hotel rooms? In this job he has to be someone else all of the time, can’t have his own voice, can’t even have his own face… He knows that’s the point of his role, but surely no one would begrudge him his own space. Time to be himself. His own thoughts. His own words.

He’s drunk too much. He knows he’s drunk too much. He sits on the Tube staring intently at the pattern on the floor, a frown creasing his face. His IPod, that he thought was fully charged when he stuck it in his bag, almost depleted. It must have started playing at some point without his knowledge. Fuck. He sticks on his current favourite artist and hopes it’ll last him back home but he doubts it.

Mercifully, as he exits Embankment it’s relatively empty and he trudges up towards Charing Cross station without having to dodge too many tourists. He turns left abruptly, deciding the take the almost hidden escalators rather than the steps that are always heaving with commuters (and really, he thinks, the time of day should make a difference, but it never does).

He has to stand further back than he wants to so he can make out what the departure boards are saying, but he finds the train he needs and the platform it’s leaving from. He cuts, effortlessly (yes, even slightly tipsy) through the living, human maze in front of the platforms, only to be stuck behind a middle-aged man whose feet turn unnaturally outwards causing him to have a slow, shuffling limp.

Miraculously, his IPod holds out all the way back to his flat in Kent and only dies as Eames is contemplating whether to bother with some sort of dinner or to simply half pass out on his bed. The sudden apathy from the Apple product decides it for him and he turns towards his bedroom, fully intent on flopping face first on the duvet, clothes and all and having done with it.

His head has barely hit the pillow when there’s a terse knocking at his door. Fuck. He grits his teeth, there can only be one person that would knock at his door. ‘Friends’ wouldn’t know where to find it and enemies wouldn’t bother knocking. The impatient tapping sounds again. Resignedly he rolls over and swings his legs over the edge of the bed and answers the door.  
“Arthur…” His voice betraying his tiredness.

He stands aside, letting Arthur in, knowing there’s no use in trying otherwise, before closing and locking the door behind him. Arthur lets him take three steps before roughly slamming him against the wall (his strength has always been deceptive).  
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” His voice quiet, laced with a deadly fury. “You think now you’ve pulled off inception you don’t have to bother being sober on the job anymore?” It’s the tiredness and the alcohol and the not small amount of recklessness that makes Eames _Eames_ that makes him close the distance between them in an angry kiss.

It’s like a dam has been burst, all the flirting and (hopefully, soon to be resolved) sexual tension between them explodes. Eames feels Arthur’s fists tighten on his shoulders, braces himself for a punch and then Arthur’s pulling him closer. Eames takes a risk, pushing his fingers into that mercilessly slicked back hair, tightening his fist gently, making Arthur sigh into his mouth.

They stumble their way, as some kind of odd two-headed creature, back to Eames’ bedroom, a strewn path of discarded clothing marking their path like an adult version of Hansel and Gretel.

He pushes Arthur back onto his bed before landing on top of him pushing their bodies together, rubbing frantically against the naked length of Arthur’s cock before remembering he’s not sixteen anymore.

He smirks down at Arthur before reaching into the bedside drawer and removing a (fortuitously recently bought) bottle of lube, eyebrow lifted in silent question. Arthur grabs his hips and pulls him closer, leaning up and capturing his mouth once again, before flipping them over in a neat and elegant (much like Arthur himself) manoeuvre.

Arthur plucks the bottle from him as he sits up, leaning back on his heels between Eames’ thighs.

He smiles, more than willing to follow where Arthur leads, spreading his legs invitingly.

Arthur gives him the bare minimum of preparation and it's just on the right side of violent and it's everything that is _them_ and it's perfect.

To an outsider, there's no way that Eames could ever describe it. It would sound painful and uncaring, but it's not. It's the culmination of years of unacted upon sexual tension and frustration and _desire_. They wouldn't be able to gentle this act even if they wanted to.

The edge approaches so much quicker than he wants it to. Arthur's name gathers behind his lips, a scream poised ready to be loosed. It's not the same scream that's been clamoring at the back of his mind, pacing and prowling restlessly. It's better, there's no release that could be this good. Nothing that he could want more….

And then his mind whites out.

He's only vaguely away of wrapping himself around Arthur, limpet like, before he falls asleep.

Before he knows it, his alarm is obnoxiously announcing the morning's presence. He stretches out his arm, reaching for the Point Man only to discover Arthur is gone.

Showered and standing in front of his wardrobe in a towel, resolutely not musing on the Arthur shaped absence in his flat, he decides that it's time he stopped pretending it was going to be warm, despite the fact that it should be given that it's late May, and dress for the temperature that he knew he was going to have to endure inside that Godforsaken building.

So, of course, it was just his luck when he sauntered into the office block, dressed for winter in the Arctic and had to de-layer and loosen his collar immediately. It's like a rainforest. Humid. Cloying. The ceiling is dripping condensation for fuck’s sake. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the look on the Chemist’s face and knows... Knows deep in his bones that this is punishment for complaining about how cold it's been.

Before he can say or do anything about it though, he hears Ariadne walking along the corridor, the mark at her side, as she pretends to be an estate agent. Her heels clack loudly on the tiled floor as she leads the mark through the building, throwing in an occasional architectural tidbit and spectacularly glossing over the fact that it's raining inside….

They've got an area set up as a mock office and that's where Ari sits them down as they discuss the pros and cons of the building and its location as a possible headquarters for the mark's fledgling business.

Eames hovers just out of sight, smirking as he watches the mark accept a cup of (liberally laced with sedative) tea. And then it's just a waiting game until the drug takes effect and Arthur is efficiently hooking him up to the PASIV.

Eames has the line in his arm and is laying back in his trademark graceless sprawl, half paying attention as Arthur presses the button to release the somnacin. As he feels the familiar rush begin to drag him under, the last thing Eames sees as he goes under is the slight smirk on Arthur's face and a glint in his eyes that promises more to come...

**Author's Note:**

> Just for anyone thinking that you can't have crazy weather like that inside buildings, I'd like to invite you to visit my office, where this actually happened (in fact, the Extractor is based on one of my members of staff, who I did almost punch when he randomly appeared next to me to be near the heater...). Don't ask me how they managed to make it rain inside, Facilities suggested it was because the windows had been washed...


End file.
